


.from the ashes.

by orphan_account



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-20
Updated: 2012-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:47:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27143371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Oberyn and Jon commiserate on the night of Elia and Rhaegar's wedding. Oberyn/Jon with implications toward Oberyn/Elia.
Relationships: Elia Martell/Oberyn Martell, Jon Connington/Oberyn Martell
Kudos: 2





	.from the ashes.

They both drink heavily the night of Elia and Rhaegar's wedding. Wine flows free and by midnight Oberyn is past any sort of pleasantries. His dark eyes glare at his sister and her new beloved. She gives him that concerned look, her eyebrows raised and he scowls harder. _She doesn't have that right anymore,_ thinks Oberyn bitterly. _She gave that up when she chose the dragon._ But her gaze haunts him, reminds him of stolen kisses and breathless, now broken, promises. He finishes his cup, slamming it down on the table and stalks out of the room.

It is on the way to one of his favorite brothels, nothing like a few pairs of tits and some warm Southron cunts to ease his pain, when he runs into Jon Connington. He is sitting on a bench in the courtyard, a half empty bottle of wine in his grasp.

"I see you're enjoying this mummers farce as much as I am," Oberyn says, sitting down beside the Griffin lord. Jon glares at him and takes another long pull from the bottle before handing it over to Oberyn.

"You should watch your tongue, Viper," Jon says, slurring slightly. "This place has more eyes and ears than you or I could even count."

"I care little for what anyone thinks. They all know I have no love for dragons." Oberyn drinks the cheap wine, but it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

"He isn't like his father," Jon says, in defense of his dearest friend. "He will be good to her. He is a good man, a _great_ man. And he loves her..." It is hard for Oberyn to deny the bitter distaste in Jon's tone when he speaks of Elia.

Oberyn scoffs at Jon's words. "He knows nothing about her! What does he know of loving her?"

"And you do?" The question is heavy and loaded and requires no answer. Oberyn may be drunk, be he is not so inebriated that he would speak of things that should not be spoken. As Jon had said, there _were_ eyes and ears everywhere.

"We need more wine," Oberyn says, letting the bottle drop to the ground between them. "And none of this swill. We need Dornish wine."

In his chambers, Oberyn pours them both large cups, and laughs when Jon coughs after his first sip of the strong liquor. Oberyn pats him on the back, teasingly at first, but Jon is warm beneath his palm. Slowly he slides his hand up along Jon's spine, up over the back of his neck, his fingers disappearing into thick red hair.

Jon's eyes close at Oberyn's touch, and he drops his head slightly, as Oberyn runs his hand through Jon's hair, short blunt nails scratching lightly over his scalp.

He pulls Jon to him, and their mouths press hard against one another. Jon's kisses are desperate, needy, and Oberyn finds he's willing to comply, to match Jon's intensity with his own, because he needs this, to quell the ache in his chest.

But it is Jon who pushes Oberyn back against the table, Jon who drags his mouth along Oberyn's jaw, the hard slope of his neck, and it is Jon who drops to his knees in front of him. Oberyn is breathing heavy now, his cock straining against the front of his breeches. Already he can feel the white hot burn building deep in his belly.

Jon's fingers are deft, pulling at the laces until the woolen material falls away, Oberyn's cock is thick with arousal, the head already slightly weeping. He moans, low and guttural when Jon takes him in his mouth, hot and wet, and tongue swirls around him, his lips tight.

He weaves his hand through Jon's hair, but he doesn't need to guide him, doesn't need to show him what he wants or how, Jon _knows_. He tries hard not to think of Elia, of the first time she'd done this. He concentrates on Jon's face, on the pink of Jon's mouth sliding up and down his cock. Oberyn's hands grip the edges of the table behind him, because he's starting lose his focus, and the overwhelming feel of Jon's mouth and the images of Elia are beginning to blur in his mind.

Jon's fingers dig into one hip and Oberyn slams his eyes shut, moaning loudly as he stills, climaxes, shooting thick and hot into Jon's mouth. His legs ache as he slumps back against the table, chest heaving. When Jon stands, Oberyn can't help but reach out and run his thumb over Jon's wet swollen bottom lip.

"It's worse for me," Oberyn says, his voice raw. "He didn't know you loved him. She knew, and still she picked him."


End file.
